


Abed

by aldonza



Series: The Little Sultana's Favourite Pastime [3]
Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms
Genre: Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Heavy Angst, Hurt No Comfort, Minor Character Death, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Relationship, Pre-Slash, Suicidal Thoughts, Vomiting, actually there is some hurt/comfort in the first section then it all goes to hell, rosy hours
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-19
Updated: 2020-03-19
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:08:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23196058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aldonza/pseuds/aldonza
Summary: Erik learns a lesson in mortality.Sequel to "bandaged dolls bleeding out."
Relationships: Erik | Phantom of the Opera/The Persian
Series: The Little Sultana's Favourite Pastime [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1574986
Comments: 18
Kudos: 17





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Remember when I said there was a reason I'm using Abed instead of Darius? This is why.
> 
> Notes: Norrson is an OC from the previous story ("bandaged dolls"), other warnings in the tags

Erik was not used to being short of breath, a condition that made it increasingly difficult to work at this new pace. The daroga had told him he could not expect to regain the strength he once had. Not so quickly. The physician had said the same thing. And Erik found it pointless to protest, for his body eagerly agreed.

He would have liked to take part in the construction of the new greenhouse- simply an amusement he proposed to the Sultana, as compensation for his inability to lead her beloved executions- but he supervised instead. He had only recently shed his limp, and his fingers- though much sturdier now- still shook at intervals that he could not predict. They were evidently unfit for molding wood and stone. 

“I would hate to tire you,” the Sultana had said, a pout at the edge of her lip.

Ah, he had come to hate the word “tire.” Long distances and high staircases left him winded, a sensation he was not yet accustomed to. He used to glide wherever he went, never a thought for how each step felt. Now every move was a challenge to the strength he lacked. Too many days in bed had rendered him weak and brittle. Complacent. And though he thought himself healed, there were plenty of sutures yet to come out and bones that still ached. Climbing out of bed had become a task in itself, and even eating a bite too many left him too nauseous to sit.

Once, the vizier had said, cordially (and with no small hint of mockery), “I see you’ve recovered well. I’m happy for you, Erik.”

And before Erik could reply, a flair of anger on his tongue, the daroga led him away. Pressure would harm his health, the man would say. And at that, Erik would laugh- he had yet to live a day in court without a pile of weights atop his head.

Then there were the hours at night, when he wondered if Mohammerah had only been a nightmare and nothing more. Then he’d flip in bed and ask if Tehran was the dream instead. Perhaps he was still tied to Norrson’s post, shards of glass pressing into flesh, voice lost to screams that were no doubt his. When the cries in his head drowned out, the Englishman’s whispers would return, pestering him for answers as Norrson opened a new wound. But when he shifted, covers kicked off, Erik found himself back in Mazandaran, spine pressing into a mattress and no blood lost. 

And just when he’d convinced himself Norrson was gone, the major’s face would appear, a blurry shadow with eyes of gray. He saw the man in the corners of a mirror and the curve of glass, behind each candle wick and beyond the window pane. _I’ll kill him,_ Erik told himself, _I’ll wring his neck and snap his vile head off._ He knew Norrson to be a figment and nothing more, but he prepared to attack nonetheless, only for limbs to freeze each time.

And when he froze, the world stopped for the briefest of seconds before he blinked. In that blink, he’d remember what he was supposed to do a moment too late. At the most inopportune times, Erik dropped whatever it was he held, skin recalling the feeling of Norrson’s lash and the cold of steel. Once, he had shattered the daroga’s plate. 

And when Nadir asked if he was well, Erik had lied and blamed it on his healing fingers instead. 

He could not look at a chisel- once so dear to him- without thinking of Norrson’s hammer against his chest. Even when he picked it up, all he could see was Norrson’s glove on his hand, his rib cage lying ahead. No matter what he did, that nagging English voice resounded in his head. He covered it with the sound of his bow, the tune just enough to calm his shaking nerves. And then he’d stop that too, for the sting in his fingers- their nails almost grown back- was too much to withstand.

At the very least, he was well enough to care for himself and he was convinced it would not be long before life returned to the way it was. Erik had returned to his apartment once he felt able to walk. His feet- though often numb- no longer stumbled. He admitted that in those half-lucid days, he’d shamelessly given himself away to Nadir’s care, but once consciousness returned in greater heaps, he saw how unfit it was to plague the daroga with his presence.

The cats had greeted him first and after stopping to pet each one, Erik entered the apartment, having spent so long away. He had expected to see it covered in dust and bugs- in spite of his best efforts to keep such things out- but it was far more immaculate than he recalled. The floor was no longer carpeted with wrinkled sketches or half-broken lead. For once, he could see the rug underneath. His books were rearranged upon their shelf and old floorplans neatly stacked atop his desk. When he checked the bedroom, he found the sheets changed and his shirts pressed, carefully folded beside his cloaks. He knew for a fact that the daroga never set foot in his home. He’d only given one man permission to enter during those days in Nadir’s home: Abed. 

The servant had stocked the kitchen with food, leaving baskets of fruit and salted chicken, and whatever else Abed thought best for him to eat. Erik held up an egg, realizing that the servant had already boiled and peeled it in the hopes it would be eaten that night. He nibbled at it, absently thinking of what to do next, rather shocked by the lengths Abed had gone for his comfort.

Perhaps they pitied him- Nadir and his servant- perhaps, he truly was as pathetic and weak as he felt. He dismissed the thought; no, they were- he dared not say friends, as if afraid he’d wake up and realize they hated him in the end. But what else could he call them, two men who- unobliged to worry for his health- showered him with concern at every turn? 

He could hear Nadir’s voice speak: “We baked a cake for you, Erik. What else must I do to prove myself true? Propose to you?”

Erik finished the egg, and smiling beneath that mask, walked back to the washroom. The Sultana had given him permission to rest, and he supposed there was no more point to dwell on Norrson-- no one spoke of the English now, at least not around him. Even so, he had to see for himself the damage that man had wrought.

He stripped himself of his robes, and as the cloth fell at his feet, he looked into the mirror he so rarely used. Without the gauze, he felt bare, that body more obscene than his memory claimed. New scars trailed above old wounds, jagged and bumpy as they carved through pale skin. They crossed him every which way, as if he’d been bound by vines and thorn. It reminded him of creased paper, folds spilled with ink. 

Fingers, trembling, moved from shoulder to elbow and chest to naval, memorizing the texture of scars on bone and stitches of stark black. Bits of skin puckered along his back, remnants of where Norrson’s brand had touched. He searched for clean flesh and could only find odd patches of skin that did not break, the rest of him lost in spirals of newly scarred flesh. 

He examined his face and winced, its cheeks far gaunter than before, white scratches crossing from temple to mouth, the veins blue behind his pathetic skin, so chalky it could have crumbled then and there. 

“How did you make it even uglier?” he asked, teeth grinning as that visage contorted. 

_“You tell me.”_

He heard Norrson’s whisper before he felt gloved hands around his waist. He shuddered, lost for breath as Norrson dug his nails into flesh. The major’s cheek was cold against his back, those gray eyes all he could see in the mirror ahead. Erik could not move, nothing but a pile of bones under Norrson’s touch. 

But Norrson was not there. When the air returned to his lungs, Erik sunk to his knees, an arm upon the sink as he tried- and failed- to stay upright. He slid down. He shuddered again, and curling upon his side, felt the cool tiles beneath his skin. 

* * *

Abed knocked on the magician’s door, a bottle of white wine tucked beneath his arm. When Erik did not answer, he rapped his knuckles again. Then the door opened by a crack and he met the familiar sight of gold eyes behind black. 

“Abed?” the Frenchman said, “where’s your master, boy?”

“Away at dinner.” Then sheepishly, he added, “I thought maybe- I could cook for you tonight?”

“There’s no need.”

Erik made to shut his door, and Abed stuck the bottle in. “Wait, Erik! I brought you a beverage. It was a gift to the master, but we do not drink so I thought-”

“You stole wine from the Daroga, and now you’re trying to give it to me?”

“He doesn’t drink!” Abed said, blushing as he tried to defend his crime. “I would have asked but by the time I found it, he was gone- and I thought, ‘perhaps Erik could use some cheer.’”

Then he realized he’d misspoken. Erik never liked it when others pried into his affairs. And although he’d noticed how grim the magician seemed as of late (more than usual, at the very least), Abed hadn’t planned on saying it to the man’s face. 

“Well, I have been very bored,” Erik said, “it’s quite suffocating in here.”

The magician opened his door, and relieved, Abed followed him in. It had been some weeks since he’d last spoken to Erik. The master often checked in on the man’s health, but perhaps more for Erik’s peace of mind than the daroga’s own, stopped by less and less. For his part, Abed continued his chores at home, more time to idle now that Erik had left their care. At first, he’d thought it time to relax, until he found himself thinking of Erik whenever he had a moment’s rest. 

Erik was stronger, certainly, but not yet well. Abed doubted the man’s fatigue would let up soon, and he was skeptical that the Frenchman would give himself proper care. And Abed did not want Erik to die prematurely, especially not after all it took to nurse him back.

While Erik poured wine, Abed made good on his promise to cook. He prepared a fish and sprinkled some wine within, certain that the meal would be more than enough for Erik’s waning appetite. Erik slipped into a chair after he set the dishes out, fingers drumming along the tabletop as he eyed the glass of wine. 

Abed lit a match and approached the nearest candlestick, starting when Erik fell back, the chair toppling with. 

“Erik!” he cried, rushing to help the magician up, the match pinched to smoke.

The Frenchman struggled against Abed’s grip, roughly shoving his hands aside. “I’m fine.”

Abed saw him wince, and hesitant, asked, “What happened?”

“Nothing. I’ll have to replace this chair.”

Erik’s voice was steady but it was hard to miss the note of shame within. Abed scratched the back of his head, and kneeling, said, “I don’t think it’s the chair, Erik.”

The magician snorted. “Are you calling me clumsy, boy?”

Abed shook his head. “I wouldn’t dare! I mean to say, _I_ might slip from my chair- but not you. Are you- are you all right?”

He waited for a reprimand, quite sure Erik would scold him and cast him back out. As he watched those yellow eyes flick, he was sure the thought did cross Erik’s mind. But the magician looked down instead, as if checking to make sure he was sitting upon the floor.

“I saw the Englishman,” Erik said lowly, “right behind you.”

Gaping, Abed turned around, regretting that he’d dropped the match. “Where!?”

“Abed, he’s not here.” Erik chuckled as the servant steadied his nerves. 

“Are you sure?”

“You’re quite daft, aren’t you? There are much better ways to attack a man than coming up behind him at supper. And he can’t leave his men anyway.”

“Oh.” Abed felt heat grow behind his ears. He grinned, trying to brush away the panic he’d just felt. “Then why did you say you saw him?”

“I thought I did. I see him everywhere I turn.” Erik’s hands groped about in the dark, until fingers settled on the fallen match. 

He struck and lifted it before Abed’s gaze. “When I saw this, I saw him as well. I can’t stop it, so I suppose we shall learn to live with it.”

Abed was about to ask how he was so sure, but Erik answered before he spoke: “It’s happened before. There were _others_ … that bothered me before him. But with time, it all disappears.”

“You should tell Master.” Abed met his gaze, Erik staring off into something else. “I don’t think I can be of much help to you.”

“If I wished him to know, he would know. I told you because you’re not a busybody like the Daroga.”

“Then what can I do for you?”

“Stay where you are. Listening is enough. I’m… not fond of sharing these things, Abed.”

The servant understood, or he assumed he did. If it was only an ear Erik wanted, then he could provide that small service. 

“Do you see him now?” he asked.

Erik’s eyes remained on that match. Abed knew enough. He inched towards the magician, and slowly, put his hands on Erik’s sleeve, barely brushing cloth. 

“Erik, look at me,” Abed muttered, “look at me. I’m real. He’s… not here.”

The magician sighed, tilting his head to stare at Abed’s face. “I know.”

“And even if he were,” the servant said, rather brashly, “I won’t let him touch you. I may not be the strongest- but, I would take my chances against him.”

“Abed, you would run the moment you saw him come.”

“I’d take you with me. Master could best him.”

Abed grinned again and he wondered if Erik smiled behind that mask as well.

* * *

Erik spent more time watering flowers than snapping necks, and he found that he did not mind this change. The Shah already had a gardener- several, in fact- but Erik was content caring for the greenhouse himself. He had nothing better to do in the time being. The physician still deemed him too frail for combat and it was clear that he could not be the angel of death if he was winded simply from climbing a flight of stairs. 

He considered himself more of a dry weed than blooming flower, but as the greenhouse grew, the more he felt his strength return. The structure had been completed earlier than he predicted- which was just as well- and the warmth within was soothing upon his bones. At times, Abed would join him as he tended the Sultana’s plants, flowers from every corner of Earth.

He lectured Abed on how to keep the greenhouse in top shape, and in turn, Abed spoke of his mundane days. The daroga had been reinstated and was busier than ever before, perhaps because Erik was out of commission, but that was a connection they never made. They made a habit of sitting by the great windows, washed by sunlight and trails of green leaves, exchanging words and sometimes sweets.

In those hours, basked by sun and Abed’s mindless chatter, Erik forgot the sting in his wounds, no longer haunted by gray eyes. Norrson’s shadow would return at night, his whispers yet to quell and his hands still stretched over every scar. But the greenhouse, he and all that happened in Mohammerah could not penetrate.

“You ought to see the flowers,” Erik had told the daroga, “we did a splendid job on the green house. I think the little Sultana will be very pleased.”

“I’ll make time for it,” Nadir replied. And then never did (to Erik’s chagrin).

Then Erik made it a goal to voice his complaints to Abed. If his master had any honor at all, he would deliver on his promise and see the greenhouse that Erik so painstakingly raised. One day, years from now, Erik was sure the daroga would deeply regret missing his chance to see the greenhouse before the Sultana replaced it with something else. 

“I won’t feel sorry for him when that day comes,” Erik fumed, “tell him exactly what I said, Abed, but don’t say they were my words.”

Perplexed, Abed had asked, “But he’ll think these are my opinions.”

“And what if he does?”

“He’ll know I would never say that to him.”

“Then say someone else did. He dismisses everything I say.”

“He’ll know you said it, Erik.”

“And how would he know that?”

Abed rubbed his nose. “He knows you well. That’s all.”

“He can know me even better if he comes to see the greenhouse!”

Abed had laughed, though Erik found nothing funny about his set of words. But Nadir did not see the greenhouse first. Instead, the Shah had been the first to admire it, followed by the Sultana and her maids. They thought it tranquil and warm, and together under the setting sun, Erik felt- for a moment- that this was all he had been promised-- the kindness of a monarch and the warmth of the Persian sun, so far away from what his life had become. Then night fell and he remembered who he was.

“Erik, there was an incident last night,” the Shah told him, “regarding your chamber of mirrors.”

A man had escaped the night before. He’d broken through a mirror and crawled out, only to have his ribcage pierced. Now there remained a hole in the torture chamber, a glaring error in the magician’s flawless system. _Fix it,_ the Shah ordered, and Erik knew he could no longer spend his days in the Sultana’s greenhouse.

The trapdoor lover went to work once more.

* * *

Abed knew Erik was again working on the chamber of mirrors, a task that neither the daroga nor the Frenchman were eager to discuss. For his part, Abed thought it best to turn a blind eye. He missed the idle days in the Sultana’s greenhouse, when their greatest worry was the number of seeds. He had promised (more to himself than anyone else) to be the magician’s companion, but that was becoming rather difficult given Erik’s newest orders.

Occasionally, the master would check in on Erik’s work, and he never brought Abed along. The servant had (reluctantly) offered to tag along once, and the daroga told him to stay put. When he brought up the subject with Erik, the man had said, “Don’t be daft, Abed.”

And so, he opted for visiting Erik’s apartment in the evening instead, sometimes with the daroga in tow. The master- for all his worry over the magician’s health- seemed eager to drift away from Erik, as if everything after Mohammerah had no choice but to go back to the way it was. He was again the stoic daroga of Mazandaran and Erik was the performer he’d been tasked to watch, nothing more than perhaps a friend. Abed suspected the master simply did not wish for Erik to distract him from his duties.

But that left the servant free to do what he wished. And he very much thought of himself as the magician’s friend. 

He often waited outside Erik’s door when the Frenchman was not yet home. He would stay until the cats were fed and Erik reappeared. Then he’d cook dinner and be on his way. Erik insisted he not stay, but he never turned Abed out when he pled.

“Your master will be upset if he knew you were doing this,” Erik told him as they shared supper, part of which the magician had prepared himself.

“I think he knows,” Abed said, “Master won’t mind.”

“Then why doesn’t he join us?”

“Would you like him to?”

Erik pushed his plate aside. “No.”

The magician never spoke of the English major again, but Abed could always detect- however faint- the tremble in his throat and the cloud in his eye. On occasion, he’d steady Erik’s step, a hand on the crook of his arm, and say, “It’s all right. I’m here.”

Abed did not know if his presence meant much to Erik, though he assumed it must have overshadowed Norrson’s image somewhat. He much preferred their time in the greenhouse, but Abed did not mind sitting with Erik in the dark, pressing his hands as he waited for the magician to slow his breath.

“You don’t have to do this,” Erik would say, once he could again speak.

“Why not?”

“You must have better things to do than tend to me.” He looked down. “And I’ve been rather cruel to you, haven’t I?”

“I actually don’t have anything better to do,” he assured Erik, “Master hasn’t come home for dinner in a while. And people have been crueler.”

And perhaps in a whispered mumble, the Frenchman said, “You’re a good man. Like your master.” 

Hoping to hear it again, Abed begged his pardon and the magician changed their topic. He asked Abed to tell him how he came to work for Daroga Khan. And Abed told him the story in all its mundane detail, from his uncle’s recommendation to his mother packing his luggage. Nadir Khan was a nobleman with power, and he would have been a fool to refuse. And yes, the daroga was every bit as intimidating as everyone said he was, though Abed wondered how much of his demeanor came from pride and how much from simple hyness.

“He’s not shy,” Erik mused, “reserved, yes, but not shy. In fact, he’s one of the boldest fools I’ve ever met.”

Sometimes Erik spoke of stories from his travels, as if his tales were as ordinary as Abed’s life. But Abed listened, enraptured by the magician’s voice, and on these nights, as they chatted on the floor, stomachs full and warm, it was easy to forget the shadow of death lurking in the air. 

* * *

He fortified the chamber to be twice its strength. An elephant would have a most difficult time breaking free, let alone a mortal man. Erik tapped his knuckles against a mirror, then another, until he swept the chamber’s length. He sealed the last of the trap doors until one remained- from whence a man could go in, but not come out. To retrieve the body, they would need to tear a wall off and then seal it back in. The Shah wanted no more failsafes, and Erik saw no reason not to comply.

It was better this way, he told himself.

“Are you so sure about this?” Nadir had asked him when he last inspected Erik’s work, “what if _you_ fall in?”

He’d scoffed and said, “Would that be so bad a thing, Daroga?”

Indeed, would it be so undesirable? If he were to slip in, he’d have no way out. He could lie in the dirt and look into desert glass, tricking himself into believing the world a mirage. And then- perhaps seeking respite from the heat and Norrson’s voice- he would wind the rope around his neck and die like any other man. He never feared death.

He shook his head. No, there was still much to do and prove. And these morbid thoughts held little weight when he’d yet to test the chamber. 

“I don’t like this,” Nadir said, his eyes resigned.

He knew Nadir hated the chamber. Once, Erik loved it. He was not so sure anymore. 

“I know, Daroga.”

And when all was done, Erik looked through the two-way glass, an iron tree poking from the ground within. He’d looped rope around its spikes in a neat noose. The test was next, and he supposed the next set of wretches sentenced to death would do well enough. Should they die, he would leave the chamber. And should they live, he would simply return for more repairs.

“When do you propose this test, magician?” the Shah asked.

“I will send in a man at midnight,” the Sultana had said in his stead, something playful behind her eyes, “you must come see, Erik.”

“Thy wish is my command.”

* * *

The master summoned Abed a quarter to twelve with a letter from court. He had been prepared to sleep. Grumbling to himself, the servant again dressed and followed the courier out, Erik’s pocketwatch tucked inside his sash. Erik had not returned to his apartment that night and Abed took dinner alone in the daroga’s home.

He supposed he should be grateful that the master was no longer displeased. Abed had earned himself an earful that morning when the daroga could not find his journal. The servant confessed to throwing it out, for he deemed it too battered to be used. And with it, he’d thrown away the master’s reports on the law’s affairs. The master had no luck retrieving the journal and in the end, he left to rewrite the whole thing (Abed doubted the master’s memory could go so far), too livid to speak further with Abed.

At least the daroga hadn’t fired him. Abed prayed his job was safe. And judging from the letter, it seemed the master still had use for him. 

“A robbery has occurred in his majesty’s palace,” the master wrote, “I will investigate tonight. Come immediately.”

The courier did not lead Abed through the familiar grand halls. He found himself following the shorter man into a stone passage instead, only the guidance of a torch in front. 

“Where does this lead?” the servant asked, rather nervously.

“It’s a shortcut,” the other man said.

He did not answer the question. And Abed was in no position to ask. When they stopped, Abed stood face-to-face with a gilded door, half his height and stretching from underground.

“Your master is in there.”

Abed stared back the way they came, unsure if he’d be able to find his way back.

“Go on, boy.”

“All right. But- does my master know the way back out from here?”

“Don’t worry. The magician is with him.”

If anyone knew the palace, it was Erik. Relaxing slightly, Abed nodded and stooped. Squinting, he opened the door and hobbled in. Behind, the courier (or whoever he was) clicked the door shut. When Abed next turned, he was blinded by light.

He gasped, stumbling as the red sun beat upon his head, the air of scorching desert all around. Dazed, he wondered when he had accompanied the daroga into the desert. The last thing he remembered was stepping through that door.

“Wait-”

He turned around, only to see that the door was gone, replaced with endless sky. It stretched in front, an infinite desert with a shimmering oasis by an iron tree. Perhaps this was only a dream and he’d simply tangled himself in too many blankets. Compared with the cool stone he’d just walked through, the bright heat was almost too much to bear.

Abed knit his brow and walked ahead. “Master?”

He was halfway through calling for Erik next when he cried in pain, having smashed his face into solid glass. Holding a hand to his bleeding nose, he stepped back. There was nothing in front but open air. The sweat gathering upon his back, Abed put out a hand, pressing fingers to smooth glass. He looked up.

The sun still shone. But this was not the desert he knew. The soil beneath his feet did not feel like sand. And the sun almost looked like a reflection of glass. Breaths harsh, he looked closer at the glass he’d hit, and for a brief second, glimpsed himself, hair drenched with sweat.

It was a mirror.

“Master!” he called.

And somehow, the reality of where he was still did not register until a voice- heavensent- replied, _“Abed?”_

Relieved, the servant glanced in the direction from where it came. “Erik! Erik, where are you?”

 _“Abed! Is that you!?”_ he heard the magician roar, muted from behind glass, _“why are you here!?”_

“I-”

_“You idiot!”_

“Erik- where’s Master?”

Abed heard another sound, light giggles as lovely as spring chimes. It was the Sultana’s laugh, and it came from wherever Erik stood.

He felt his skin burn, blistering hot in the desert sand. “Erik, where am I?”

 _“Listen to me, Abed,”_ Erik said, his voice uncharacteristically rash, the slightest hint of a French accent for once upon his tongue, _“listen! Do not move. Stay where you are- I’ll-”_

The last word turned into a cry of pain. Alarmed, Abed pounded against the glass, watching the desert ripple in and out as his knuckles seared.

“Erik! What’s happened? Where am I!?”

 _“Damn it,”_ he heard Erik say, low and pained. 

“Erik, what do I do!?”

He was on fire. He must have been. The sun scalded from above, its flames bouncing from wall to wall. The heat muffled his voice and stole his air. He understood then, that the master was not there. He never had been. And Abed must have been in none other than the chamber of mirrors. On his knees, he retched- overcome with shock and pain- the contents of his stomach instantly sizzling upon the ground.

As he wiped the dribble and reluctant tears, he heard Erik say again, “Abed, follow the sound of my voice.”

“Erik- what will happen to me?” he said, unsure if Erik could hear him now.

_“Nothing! I promise- I promise you will live. Do you trust me, Abed? Can you trust me? Can you do that?”_

Abed nodded. “Yes! Yes!”

Desperate, he crawled to his feet, and listening for Erik’s cries of his name, walked across the desert until he crossed the iron tree.

_“Stop there! Abed climb the tree and grab that rope.”_

“The- the noose.”

_“Yes, take it! And unwind it!”_

The climb left Abed’s palms red and raw, but such pain was nothing in that blanket of heat. He would do anything to escape, and as he untangled the knot, he wanted to puke again. He wondered if it would be so bad a look if he slipped his neck through the rope instead.

_“Now keep walking. Come to me.”_

Abed obeyed, Erik’s voice- the angel’s voice- the only thread of salvation left. He smashed into another mirror, the glass cracking with. Blinking the blood from his face, Abed said, lip quivering, “Erik- now what?”

And the little Sultana still laughed. He heard her all around, an imp begging him to stay.

“Erik, now what!?”

_“Toss it as high as you can.”_

“I can’t, Erik,” he said, again breaking into tears, “I can’t. You know I can’t.”

_“You must! I’ll catch it! But you must throw it over- see up there, there’s a hole- get it through, that’s all you need!”_

Gulping, Abed obeyed. The rope fell back, whipping him once, twice, and three times. He feverishly tossed, thrusting with all his might until it at last touched the hole. Something snagged it from behind and when the rope was pulled taut, Abed fell on his bottom and laughed. The taste of water awaited from beyond.

 _“Now come!”_ Erik cried, _“Abed, come, climb up!”_

Abed nodded, head bobbing as he laughed. Then he took hold of the cord, and feet pressed to glass, forced his way up. Erik called for him from behind, reassurance that the rope was tight. All the magician would do next was pull. He would pull and Abed would be free, back in the cool night shade. He would pull and Abed would fall through. He would pull and Abed would be in his arms, safe from the desert he’d left behind. He would pull and-

Abed slipped.

And the chamber heard the crunch of neck. 

* * *

Erik had kept his promise to the little Sultana. He’d come to the chamber of mirrors at midnight, not a moment early or late. She was waiting with her guards, lazily perched on a high-backed chair. Before her, the bright desert loomed, encased with a wall of transparent glass.

On one knee, he bowed and said, “Your servant has come. Your highness, is his majesty not here tonight?”

She shook her head. “Too busy, you see. So we’ll see this show for him.”

“He may want to see for himself.”

“You know nothing of what he wants,” she said, “so it’d do you good to shut up.”

“Forgive me.”

She had spoken unkindly to him in the past, but never with the vitriol she just showed. Stretching to his full height, Erik surmised her, noting a tension in her comely features. Turning that delicate nose up, she said, “No man will escape tonight, you say?”

“No. I’ve seen to it that there is only one way in.”

“And the way out?”

“There is none.” He folded his hands behind his back. “But should you wish to retrieve the dead, we would simply pry off the outermost wall. This task needs two men and would take a day at most.”

“Good.” Sinking back into her chair, she smiled. “Then if I were to stumble in, it would take you a whole day to save me?”

“You would not fall in. I would make sure of it.”

“Am I so important to you?”

“But of course, your highness.”

“Then tell me- if the Shah and I were trapped inside, who would you save?”

“Both, of course.”

“Just one. You can be honest, Erik- who would you save?”

Her eyes shone, a brown so light they were almost dusted gold. He looked to her guards, their gazes on the doors behind. He’d never cared for what the rest of court thought.

“You,” he said.

“Such a loyal servant.” She turned her gaze on the glass. “But I don’t know if I believe you. Perhaps you’d be willing to trade my life for the man in there.”

“You know I would never.”

“We’ll see about that.” The Sultana touched her chest, right above the breast bone. “I would test this chamber myself if you wished that man go free. The choice is yours. And as you know, I’m not fond of giving choices.”

Erik tried to piece together her words, unsure how she wanted him to react. Perhaps she only wished to hear another sweet set of words. He was about to ensure his loyalty when she gasped and said, “Ah! Here he is!”

The magician turned. And felt the air halt. 

A figure crawled into the chamber of mirrors and clumsily climbed to its feet. He recognized that youthful face. He recognized him by his very gait, before he even saw the rosy cheeks and cotton vest. 

“Abed,” he said, as if he’d been tricked by the mirage of his own design.

In disbelief, Erik watched the boy wander ahead, the heat soon leaving him soaked in sweat. Abed could not escape. Erik had made sure of that. He touched his palms to the glass, fingers trembling so hard he felt as if they would rattle off.

“Abed.” His voice hung thick, weighted by the very air.

The servant could not hear.

Then louder, he roared, “Abed! Is that you!? Why are you here!?“

Abed’s head whipped in his direction, face colored between shock and relief. “I-”

“You idiot!”

Squinting at the sun, Abed said, “Erik- where’s Master?”

Then the Sultana giggled, peals of laughter rippling from her smooth throat. Erik snapped his gaze at where she sat, stunned back into reality. She had planned this, he realized. She had planned this and Abed (no, Erik) had walked right into it. 

“Now what, Erik?” she said, “would you like to trade that man for me?”

“Why?” he asked, too shocked to register the fury building within, “he’s a servant, nothing more. Why? Why?” _Why!? Why!? Why!?_

And as the whys continued to pour out, he heard Abed say, “Erik, where am I?”

He would get Abed out first. The chamber could not be penetrated by ordinary men. But Erik was no ordinary man. Promises to the Sultana all but forgotten, he rushed at the wall, again and again until bleeding fists managed to dent glass. He dug hands into those light dents and hoisted himself up. 

The Sultana’s laughter echoed behind. And it forced him on. 

“Listen to me, Abed,” he babbled, _“_ listen! Do not go near that tree. Stay where you are- I’ll-”

He thrust his arm into the glass, agony bouncing from skin to bone. Crying out, he thrust again, still not enough to crack wall. He saw Abed pound on the wall from the other side, desperately searching for a way out.

“Erik! What’s happened? Where am I!?”

“Damn it,” the magician hissed.

“Erik, what do I do!?”

But Erik had not been trying to destroy the wall. He saw where he’d cracked the mirror, and gnashing his teeth, he dug his hands through where the cracks met. Pieces of glass fell, just enough for an inch of space. Just enough for Abed to force his own way through. One man could not fight his way out, but with another pulling outside, there was a chance- however slim- of a messy escape.

As he watched the boy retch, Erik said, “Abed, follow the sound of my voice.”

“Erik- what will happen to me?” 

The magician felt his ribcage heave, the hot rush of blood pouring from sliced hands. 

“Yes, what will happen to him, Erik?” the Sultana said, much amused.

“Nothing!” he snapped, “I promise- I promise you will live. Do you trust me, Abed? Can you trust me? Can you do that?”

Abed nodded. “Yes! Yes!”

Erik cried his name once more, shouting Abed’s name to the heavens as the servant followed the sound, blindly stumbling until he passed the iron tree. 

“Stop there! Abed climb the tree and grab that rope.”

“The- the noose.”

Erik tightened his grasp. Blood rolled down upon the glass, leaving thick trails of red over where the tree stood. “Yes, take it! And unwind it!”

Abed obeyed, looking sicklier by the minute. And when he finally untangled the knot, Erik released a breath. “Now keep walking. Come to me.”

He watched the servant move, so off balance that he smashed into the mirror below where Erik clung. Dazed, Abed asked, “Erik- now what?”

“So you chose him.”

And the little Sultana laughed once more. Erik did not choose. But in her eye- he knew- he had. He’d picked the daroga’s servant over his beloved Sultana. He’d condemned her to a fate within those mirrors. Would he lose her now too? Or would he have to lose Abed first? He blinked spots from his eyes, blood loss airing out his head. 

“Erik, now what!?” Abed cried.

 _Yes, now what._ “Toss it as high as you can.”

“I can’t, Erik,” Abed replied in tears, “I can’t. You know I can’t.”

Perhaps not before, but he would have to now, have to if he wished to live. And Erik told him just as much: _“_ You must! I’ll catch it! But you must throw it over- see up there, there’s a hole- get it through, that’s all you need!”

Abed threw the rope up several times, failing after each attempt. And then when it finally hit the cracks, Erik latched on to the cord, palms soaking the coils red. 

“Now come!” Erik cried, “Abed, come, climb up!”

He slid back to the floor, and with all the strength he had left, clutched the rope tight and pulled it taut. On the other side of that bloodied glass, Abed climbed, a desperate hope gleaming in his face. Erik urged him on, near doubling over in relief when Abed reached the top. He prepared to pull the boy through-

Abed slipped.

He lost his balance, and before he could finish his shout, his head touched the ground. The crunch followed next- like the punjab’s snap- and Abed was still, hair fanned out and eyes dulled. 

“Abed?” Erik heard himself say, a deaf ringing in his ears.

The boy stayed unmoving, no rise or fall to his chest. 

“Abed?”

Behind him, the Sultana clapped, a furious slapping of hands. But Erik had drowned it out. He looked at his hands, now stained with so much blood, scars reopened and sliced anew. Then he balled them into fists and smashed them against the glass. He screamed and pounded until he felt bile rise up.

“Abed!” he heard his voice cry, nothing more than an animalistic shout, “Abed! Abed!”

And as he crumpled, the shrieks gave way to sobs, choked sounds that left him near strangled as the tears poured out. He crumpled against the glass, tearing screams from his throat. 

He was still shrieking Abed’s name when he saw Nadir’s face reflected from behind. He saw the devastation touch the master’s features, those jade eyes filled with disbelief. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's significantly shorter than the last one. But I think it's better to keep them split up.

The daroga walked in step beside each man, right behind a boy not yet fifteen. He counted ten men in stride, each chanting _lâ ilâ ilallah_ into the sky, some boys still blinking through puffed eyes. The coffin followed from behind, held on the shoulders of four mourners clad in black, their hardened features a ghostly glimpse of what Abed would appear had he lived a decade more. Abed had been seventeen when he died, and he would stay seventeen for the rest of Nadir’s years.

There was no sun that day, only clouds that colored the sky a muted grey. Nadir kept his gaze straight ahead, finding a mark in the cemetery to focus on instead. He had no right to look Abed’s family in the eye. A party of women marched behind the coffin’s head, the same broken chant upon their lips. Abed sometimes spoke of his sisters, much older than himself, and a mother who beat him for lazing about. Nadir knew who the mother was from the moment he arrived. She looked like his late servant. Her shroud was black, as dark as her eyes, that face having aged ten years in a matter of days. And she had not spoken a word to him.

It was instead the father who’d thanked him for bringing his son’s salary. They’d spoken briefly- of what, Nadir could not remember- and the man had told him where the funeral would be. It was an invitation. And he had no right to refuse.

Two nights prior, he’d left home in a huff. And returned to find Abed missing. He remembered blaming the boy for running away, perhaps to cry to Erik for Nadir’s temper. Then his blood ran cold when he found the letter from the daroga’s hand, a letter that was surely not his. He knew Erik’s writing well enough- the magician could not have forged such a thing. 

“We test the chamber tomorrow,” Erik had said.

And he knew. Somehow, the daroga knew where Abed had gone. The rest of his memory was a blur, a smudge of ink across old paper. He recalled rushing into the chamber of mirrors, stopping in front of the bloodied glass. He saw Erik first, the magician shrieking as he pounded at glass with knuckles soaked in red, little more than a wild beast.

Then he saw his servant lying on the desert within, his chest still and eyes upturned. And blank. 

“What did you do!?”

He heard the screech before he knew he’d said it. And then his hands were grasping Erik’s collar, pushing fabric as he slammed the man against the glass behind.

“What did you do!?”

But all Erik did was blubber and sob, incoherent cries from his mouth, Abed’s name spouted again and again. 

He let Erik go, knees trembling as the magician slid into a crumpled heap. Then, staring back at the body inside, Nadir felt reality hit. He felt it slam, choking air out and leaving him too winded to speak. 

And the little Sultana yawned.

Nadir remembered punching the glass and nothing else. The next thing he knew, he was back at home, clearing out Abed’s things and penning a letter to the boy’s home. But he could not. He fell to his knees instead and sobbed, harsh bawls that left him as broken as a dying babe.

He wrote to Kaveh instead. And his cousin penned the letter in his place. He did not see Erik the day after, or the next. All he knew was that the magician had convinced the Shah to let him remove Abed’s corpse.

Now the boy lay shrouded in white, eyes shut and skin cleaned, blind to daylight as he slept in that coffin of wood. When they reached the cemetery, Nadir stepped to the back, numb to the graves around. He watched them lower the coffin and open its lid. The body came out next, that face still as soft as Nadir recalled, lips parted as if in sleep. Perhaps this was a mistake and Abed would wake, sputtering clumsy apologies for this trick.

But no such miracle came.

They placed him (what had once been him) in the pit, leaning the body right. The mullah led them in a round of prayers, and though Nadir listened, he did not hear. He repeated, but he did not say. He felt himself nothing but a grey cloud in the bland sky, another part of the cold dryness in the air. 

When the prayers ended, the dirt went in, and the last of Abed disappeared. Nadir stayed standing as the rest of the family began to scatter, perhaps to pray elsewhere next. 

“Daroga Khan?”

He turned. And felt his chest squeeze at the sight of this man who looked so much like his Abed.

“I am. Yes?”

“My name is Hamid. I am Abed’s uncle- I was the one who told him to go to you.”

“I’m sorry.” It was all he could say.

Hamid smiled. “No. It’s not your fault. I don’t know if it’s anyone’s.”

Guilt again settled in. It was the fault of several people, himself included. 

“I only wanted to ask if you’re again in need of a man?”

“I don’t want to trouble your family any longer.”

“Darius is not a member of our family. He’s someone I used to work with, a man who could do well for himself in Tehran.”

Nadir sighed. “Then if he wishes to come, I can meet him. But please… tell him what his job expects.”

“I will. With your permission, I can give him your address?”

“Yes. That’s fine.”

Then they parted ways, Hamid perhaps unable to spend too long looking Nadir in the eye. And as he again gave himself away to the melancholy of grief, Nadir heard a woman screech. He rushed to the source and stopped in his tracks.

Abed’s mother was on her knees, tear-streaked as she cursed and pounded at the man looming ahead. Erik. 

The magician watched her, face lost behind his mask of black. She tore at his robes, cursing him a thousand times over and thrusting fists at his waist. But he remained stone still, unwilling to even move an inch. In his hands, he held Abed’s pocketwatch, as if offering it to the woman as a final keepsake. She slapped it to the ground.

“You killed him!” she sobbed, “it was you! You killed my child! Damn you-”

Abed’s brothers pulled her back, offering terrified apologies to the Frenchman as they tried to soothe their incensed mother. She broke free, long enough to spit in Erik’s face before the family dragged her off and disappeared. They did not want a second death in their family, not at the monster’s hands.

Even the mullah had run off.

“Why are you here?” Nadir asked numbly.

Erik looked to where Abed was buried, disheveled from the woman’s attack. “I wanted to see him.”

“How long were you watching?”

“Since the procession began. I didn’t want to be noticed.”

Nadir nodded. He did not want to see Erik. As he moved away, he felt a hand on his wrist, palm covered with the texture of gauze. He looked down at Erik’s bandaged hand.

“Daroga,” the Frenchman whispered, “tell me… is it always like this?”

“This?”

“When a man dies, is it always like this? The tears, the funeral-”

Before Nadir could answer, Erik released his wrist and latched onto his vest, hands holding each fold together as he struggled to stay upright. The man was shaking, and his trembles rattled Nadir as well.

“The pain,” Erik said, his voice cracked, “does it always hurt this much, Daroga?”

There was nothing else Nadir could say.

“Yes.”

A sob escaped the other man. Erik sunk, hands traveling down Nadir’s shirt. “So every man I’ve- this is what happens next- this- this-”

Nadir undid the strings behind the magician’s ears. He slid the mask off Erik’s face, that skull of a head glistening with fresh tears. His eyes freed, the magician wept again, burying his face into Nadir’s chest. Erik clutched at his own breast, as if scratching for a heart buried in bone.

“I’m sorry, Daroga,” he sobbed, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry- I killed them all, I killed them all-”

“Erik, stop this.” Nadir tried to pry the Frenchman off, but found his own hands too weak to move. “Please.”

“I had no idea, Daroga, I’m sorry, I’m sorry-”

The daroga shoved him away, only for Erik to grab his wrists. On his knees, Erik looked to him and pleaded, as pathetic as the corpse he appeared, “Daroga, kill me.”

“Erik-”

“Kill me! Take an eye for an eye, please, kill me.” Erik hung his trembling head, hand slipping away to slam on dirt. “I deserve it, not- not- him. Kill me. Kill me.”

Nadir watched him beg, shoulders heavier than he could bear. He shook his head, jaw tight.

“Killing you won’t bring him back.”

As Erik wept on, Nadir crouched and put his arms under the magician’s own. He lifted, pulling Erik along, staggering when the Frenchman sunk against him.

“And the fault is- it’s mine as well,” Nadir said, tongue thick, “I was so angry with him that night, I left the apartment. I- I told him to pray that I wouldn’t fire him.”

Indeed, if Abed could return, Nadir would gladly burn a thousand journals. He swallowed the weight in his throat, eyes stung with salt. Abed had been his brother and he’d let him die. And perhaps the worst part was that nobody blamed him but himself.

“Daroga-”

“I’ve always been this way. When I was sixteen, my father- the daroga- took me to the city. I was going to keep the streets safe with him. I was going to be the next daroga, and I thought myself a hero.”

He inhaled and released that breath, the patchwork memories returning to the front of his mind, for they’d never left at all. “I caught a pickpocket- a fast young boy, twelve, maybe older- and then he ran from me. I found him hiding in some corner unfit for rats to live, let alone children. Him and his siblings.”

Erik’s head was by his shoulder, close enough for Nadir to speak into his ear. “Father told me to hunt them out. Crime breeds more crime, he said. But I was afraid- I didn’t want to. He went to find them himself and then-”

There was cotton in his throat, perhaps from the same material as Abed’s shroud. But he pushed his words through dried lips regardless. “That boy attacked my father. And I-”

He had thought himself a hero. 

He had thought himself nothing.

He was nothing.

“I killed him,” Nadir said, face wet with tears that were not Erik’s, “so you see, I’ve no right to blame you. I’m a coward and a hypocrite and-”

Nadir crumpled, only then realizing that he was the one sobbing in Erik’s embrace. The magician kept him upright, arms holding Nadir to his chest as the daroga- that cursed title- cried. On the ground, the watch ticked on.

_ -and Abed is dead, _ he meant to- but could not- say.

And Erik wept along. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that ends the third story! We'll be going chronologically forward from here. Thanks for reading and feel free to drop kudos/comments! 
> 
> On Abed- he's the reason this series is an AU. He was just an ordinary teenager who thought of himself as a footnote in everyone else's life. But the truth is he's the most important character in this -verse, because his existence as Nadir's first servant changes everything about the rosy hours from here on out. 
> 
> I don't know when the next story will come, but fair warning: it's on par with "bandaged dolls" in terms of violence, and Erik hits rock bottom. Things are going to get very dark for him and Nadir, but I promise that the series isn't going to end in a tragedy (there's just going to be a lot of pain in between).

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! As always, kudos/comments are welcome! Always great to know if anyone besides me is interested in this series.


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